My four-year-old put the most feared mob boss in New Jersey in a time-out corner, completely unaware that her house rules were about to bring him to his knees.

“Lily!”

The scream tore from my throat before Vincent could stop me. I took two frantic steps forward, but Vincent’s arm shot out like an iron bar, catching me across the chest and hauling me back against him.

“Stay behind me,” he ordered, his voice low, steady, and deadlier than a cocked hammer.

“He has her, Vincent! He has my baby!”

“He won't hurt her. Not yet. He needs leverage to leave this property alive,” Vincent said, his eyes never leaving Julian. “Thomas! Paul!”

From the corner of the house, the two large bodyguards materialized, their hands already tucked inside their jackets.

“Cover the gates,” Vincent commanded without looking back. “Nobody enters. Nobody leaves. If a tire moves on this driveway, shoot the engine block.”

Julian stood beside the open passenger door of a dark gray Range Rover. He wasn't smiling anymore. The slick corporate sheen had peeled away, revealing the desperate, cornered rat beneath.

“Stay right there, Vince!” Julian shouted across the lawn, his voice carrying an edge of hysteria. “Tell your apes to drop their hands or I swear to God I’ll break this little brat's arm!”

Lily let out a frightened wail. “Mama! Mister!”

“Julian,” Vincent called out, his voice smooth, echoing with calm authority as he stepped forward onto the open grass. He didn't run. He walked with measured, unhurried steps, closing the distance between them ten feet at a time. “You’re making a tactical error.”

“I’m surviving!” Julian yelled back, his knuckles white around the grip of a small semi-automatic pistol he had pulled from his waistband. He didn't point it at Lily—he was smart enough to know that if he killed the girl, Vincent would tear him apart with his bare hands regardless of the consequences. He kept it aimed directly at Vincent’s chest. “You’ve been squeezing me for six months, Vince! You thought I didn't notice the audits? You thought I didn't see the forensic accountants going through my logistics books?”

“I gave you a chance to come clean,” Vincent said, continuing his steady advance. He was forty yards away now. Thirty-five. “I gave you three opportunities to walk into my office and lay it on the table.”

“And end up in a concrete footing in Secaucus?” Julian spat. “I know what you do to thieves! But Daniel Reyes had the backup keys. He had the physical encrypted drive that links my private shell accounts to the shipments. I searched that crash site for two hours three years ago, Vince! I tore his locker apart! I never thought the dumb bastard hid it inside a twenty-dollar carnival toy!”

He squeezed the rabbit’s chest, feeling the hard block of the micro-drive within the stuffing. A sick, triumphant sneer spread across his face.

“And now I have it,” Julian laughed. “The drive has the encrypted routing codes for the Elizabeth terminal. Fifty million dollars in untraceable tech clears customs in two hours. I’m getting on that private flight from Teterboro, Vince. And the girl comes with me to the airfield. Once I’m in international airspace, I’ll drop her at a police station.”

“No!” I screamed, breaking free from Vincent’s grip and stumbling forward onto the grass. “Take me! Julian, please, she’s four years old! She has a heart condition! Take me instead!”

Julian glanced at me, his eyes twitching with frantic adrenaline. “Shut up! Both of you, back off, or I put her in the trunk!”

He bent down, roughly grabbing Lily by the strap of her overalls to hoist her into the back seat.

That was his mistake.

Lily had spent the last six weeks learning the cardinal laws of the Marquette mansion. She knew what happened when people were rude. She knew what happened when people raised their voices.

And she knew Rule Number Two.

As Julian grabbed her, his shiny Italian loafer planted itself firmly on the seat cushion of the Range Rover to give him leverage.

Lily stopped crying.

Her small face scrunched up into an expression of absolute, blazing fury.

“NO SHOES ON SEAT!” she shrieked.

Before Julian could react, Lily reared her head back and slammed her forehead directly into the bridge of his nose.

*Crack.*

It wasn't a lethal blow, but the cartilage in Julian's nose gave way with a sickening crunch. A fountain of crimson exploded across his mouth. He bellowed in shock, stumbling backward, his hands reflexively flying to his bleeding face.

Barnaby flew from his grip, tumbling through the air and landing in the wet grass.

“Lily, drop!” Vincent roared.

Lily dropped flat onto her stomach like she had practiced during preschool fire drills.

Vincent moved faster than any man his size had a right to move.

He cleared the remaining thirty feet in three explosive strides. Before Julian could bring the pistol back up, Vincent’s left hand clamped around the slide of the gun, his thumb wedging beneath the hammer to prevent it from firing. With his right hand, Vincent delivered a single, devastating palm-strike directly under Julian’s chin.

The sound echoed off the stone walls of the garage like a timber snapping.

Julian went airborne for a fraction of a second, his feet leaving the gravel before his body slammed violently against the side of the Range Rover, shattering the driver’s side window.

The gun dropped into Vincent’s hand with a flick of his wrist.